


Queen Takes Knights

by BazinMousqueton



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (But Probably Not the Last Time), ASMR, Another Established Relationship, Autonomous sensory meridian response, Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Chair Sex, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, Everyone Agrees Aramis is Beautiful, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Female Gaze, Getting Over the Ex by Fucking on His Favourite Piece of Furniture, Hand Jobs, More Cunnilingus, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Porn with Feelings, Porthos Knows He's Beautiful, Threesome - F/M/M, Throne Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, first time threesome, spoilers for 1x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-11 06:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7881049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazinMousqueton/pseuds/BazinMousqueton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Porthos goes back to the Court of Miracles, Flea banishes the memory of Charon by taking Porthos on Charon's throne, and a feather inspires Flea to issue an invitation to Aramis. She's very glad she did.</p><p>Chapter 1 is Flea/Porthos, Chapter 2 Flea/Porthos/Aramis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Claiming the Throne

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after 1x05 (The Homecoming) and before 1x09 (Knight Takes Queen).

Flea looked down at Porthos, sprawled on his back in a narrow alley deep in the Court of Miracles, a thief's knife at his throat.

"Good to see you walking among the beggars and whores," she said, smiling. He grinned up at her, all dimples and confidence. Her body responded: a suddenly dry mouth; a tingle between her legs. Her heart raced. She concentrated on keeping her posture relaxed.

Porthos pushed the knife aside. 

"Good," he said to the thief. She was maybe fourteen and scrawny, half his size, her skin darker than his. "But you're still signalling your blows." He got to his feet and stood in a fighting crouch. "Try again, and don't let your eyes warn me where your hands are going to hit."

"Think of it like picking a pocket," Flea said. "Make him look the wrong way."

The girl nodded, serious. Flea turned, giving Porthos a last look over her shoulder. "I'll be in the main chamber when you're done," she said.

# # #

Flea made sure she was alone when he arrived. She lit the chamber only by the two candle stands next to Charon's throne. Hers now, although she'd never wanted a throne. 

The authority that came with it? That, she could accept. That, she grabbed with both hands. That, she wielded better than Charon ever had.

She handed Porthos a goblet of wine: the best crystal, stolen from the Duchesse de Chevreuse, paired with the cheap wine delivered by the landlord at The Wren. Porthos winced as he took a mouthful. Used to something finer, no doubt. It didn't stop him taking another.

"Does your Captain know you're training the thieves of Paris in hand-to-hand combat?" Flea asked.

Porthos set down his wine and spread his hands wide, giving a look of fake innocence Flea remembered all too well. "I'm teaching helpless orphans to defend themselves. Who could object to that?"

Flea laughed and stepped in to kiss him. He smelt half of the Court -- alley mud, terrible wine -- and half of his other life -- horse sweat on his leathers and gunpowder on the hand he brought up to cup her jaw. She knew his hands were strong, capable of violence. She felt only tenderness. He kissed as if she was his entire world. Butterflies fluttered through her stomach. She rubbed one hand up the soft hair at his nape and used the other to pull his hips closer. The press of his hard cock made her knees weaken. Porthos moaned into the kiss. Flea tightened her hand on his neck and pushed her tongue roughly into his mouth. She hiked up her skirt, shifted her weight and wrapped her right leg around Porthos's waist. He gripped her thigh. She ground herself against his breeches, gasping and pulling back from the kiss as sensation spread out from her groin.

She threw her head back, exposing the arch of her neck. Porthos, obediently, teased his tongue and lips down to the top of her breasts. Her pulse thumped, in her neck and between her legs. She drew a ragged breath as he loosened her laces and pushed her bodice down. His mouth closed around one nipple. It hardened under his tongue. He sucked. Flea gasped.

"I want your fingers," she said.

Porthos ran his hand further up her thigh, pushing her skirts aside. She wore nothing underneath her shift. His fingertips brushed her.

"Someone's ready," he said, as if she hadn't spent half the afternoon wet for him. 

"And waiting."

He grinned at her abrasive tone and slid a finger inside. Warmth rushed through her and set her nerve ends tingling. Her chest tightened around her pounding heart. She breathed his name. 

He curled his hand under her so its heel pressed against her clit, rocking and stroking in a regular rhythm. His other arm tightened around her to keep her upright. She flattened her hands on his back, finding smooth leather between straps and buckles and weapons. She let herself moan as Porthos pushed a second finger inside her, making breathy little cries as he thrust faster.

"Do you wanna come like this?" Porthos asked. 

She did. 

She really did. 

But, she also wanted to come with Porthos's cock inside her. _On the throne,_ she realised.

She took a deep breath to steady herself, shook her head, and leant away. Porthos understood. He withdrew his hand, with a caress that made her shudder with pleasure, eased her leg off his hip and supported her as she stood and stepped back. 

She walked to the throne and perched on its arm, feeling his eyes on her. Her bodice gaped. She kicked off her shoes and crossed her legs, arranging her skirts to reveal black stockings and white thigh. Porthos's lips parted. 

"Will you undress for me?" she asked. 

Porthos glanced at the doorway, closed only by a gauzy drape of fabric. She almost laughed. _Now_ he was worried about privacy? Had he not considered it when his fingers were buried in her?

"No-one will interrupt us," she said. 

"In that case," Porthos said, hands on the buckle of his sword belt, "it would be my pleasure."

He stripped quickly, displaying himself to her without teasing. She ran her eyes over him: broad shoulders, strong arms, muscled torso, narrow hips. His cock stood, fully hard, between powerful thighs. She shivered deliciously; licked her lips.

He tilted his head in a question. She gestured to the throne. He nodded slowly, pulled down one of the hangings that divided the space -- a thick, woollen blanket in shades of ruby and garnet -- and carried it to her. She moved so he could drape it, folded double, over the throne's seat and arms, blunting the sharp corners of the wood.

Charon would never have done that. 

But, then, Charon would never have let her fuck him on his throne. 

Porthos had always been many things Charon was not.

"Sit," she said, voice unsteady. 

He did, gloriously naked and perfectly at ease. She pulled off her own clothes, in too much of a hurry to worry about grace, and left them in a tangle on the flagstones. He chuckled at her haste. 

"You'll damage your frock," he said. She had been wearing her feathered skirt. "Might loose some of your plumage."

She didn't dignify him with a reply. His expression changed as she approached, his relaxation shifting to frank desire. It took her breath away. His, too; he was all but panting.

"I assume you have a plan," he said, the same assumption he'd been making since he was five years old. She was always the one with a plan. "I'm not sure this throne's built for two."

She laughed. "Charon would never have shared it." She'd planned to settle into his lap; had forgotten the six-inch-high pointed handrests at the end of the throne's arms that would get in her way. "This isn't going to be elegant."

"Don't take this wrong," Porthos said, "but I didn't come here for elegance. Get more than enough of that at the other Court."

She put her right foot on the seat between his thighs and pushed herself up to balance on one leg, hands on the back of the throne. Porthos gripped her waist. She stepped up to stand with one foot on each of the throne's arms, behind the handrests, legs straddling Porthos. It put her at exactly the right height for him to lean forwards and bury his face between her legs. She cried out and bucked as he licked her full length. He tightened his hands, holding her secure, and licked again. 

She moved her hands to his head and rested them there. She didn't pull him closer, simply played with his hair, enjoying the way it curled between her fingers. 

Porthos brushed her clit with his tongue. She breathed in, feeling her body awaken again, and tightened her fingers in his hair. Porthos tongued her gently, sending tendrils of pleasure through her. 

Her legs quivered. She leant down to kiss Porthos's head, tasting his pomade. He looked up.

"Come on, then," he said. 

She bent her knees, relying on his hands at her waist to steady her, crouched, and then let herself fall into his lap, laughing. Her legs, spread wide, dangled over the arms of the throne. Porthos's cock stood, only half-hard, in front of her. She wriggled forward, Porthos pulling her in, until she could rock against it, covering him in her wetness. Porthos moaned and screwed his eyes shut. His cock hardened; Flea tilted her pelvis so her clit rubbed his erection. Her breathing quickened. She stroked Porthos's chest, loving the feel of heated skin and taut muscles, and bent close to whisper in his ear.

"May I fuck you?"

"God, yeah."

She tensed her thighs, put her hands on his shoulders, and raised herself out of his lap. Porthos held his cock at the right angle. They both sucked in a breath as she settled herself above him; the tip of his cock slipping into her. She kissed him, pushed her tongue into his mouth and, when he moaned his need, slid down until his cock was deep inside her. She paused a moment, adjusting to being filled by Porthos. They stared into each other's eyes. She loved this feeling.

"It's good," Flea said.

"Feels _amazing_ ," Porthos said. 

She moved, lifting and falling, delighting in his hardness inside her. He rested his hands in the small of her back and let her set the pace. She sped up, chasing her orgasm. Porthos moved with her. He gritted his teeth and threw back his head, trying not to come too quickly. Flea -- close but not that close -- fingered her clit, rubbing hard and fast. Heat flowed through her. She thrust down on Porthos, taking him as deeply as she could, shuddered, and tipped over into orgasm, mewling as she came. 

Porthos pushed up into her, lifted her, pushed again, lifted, pushed, cried out, and stilled, panting. 

They held each other as they came back to themselves. Flea's skin tingled. Sweat trickled down her back. She noticed, for the first time, how the throne's arm dug into her thighs, and wriggled into a comfortable position, curled up in Porthos's arms. 

She was the first to move. She was the Queen; she couldn't spend all evening on her own pleasure. She kissed Porthos and squirmed out of his lap. He half-tried to hold her, but didn't complain when she slipped from his grasp. 

On his way out, Porthos knelt to pick up a black feather, torn from her skirt. He cradled it in the palm of his hand. He didn't say "I told you so," although Flea could see it in his smile.

She snatched the feather. "I'll use it to summon you," she promised. 

After he'd left she found a second feather at the foot of the throne and decided it was a message. She'd been given the ability to summon two Musketeers, if she could find the courage.

And she'd never lacked for courage.

# # #

Flea sat on her throne and forced herself not to smile at the foursome swaggering to stand before her. They halted on her faded rug. Flea nodded at the boy on the right, standing upright, weight evenly balanced on both feet, thumbs tucked into an imaginary sword belt. Light from the window behind her streamed onto him.

"D'Artagnan?" Flea asked.

She'd taught the kids to observe the way their marks held themselves, the way they walked. A thief could read a lot from a walk: uneven weight distribution located a heavy purse; readiness to fight showed in the distance between hands and weapons; the stiffness of an unhealed injury hinted at a mark who couldn't chase.

Flea had taught them to pay attention. The mimicry, though, was the kids' own.

Michel, the boy who'd followed d'Artagnan, pulled out a purse and tossed it to her. Flea pulled open the drawstring and tipped out a couple of copper coins and a curled sprig of rosemary. She nodded her approbation and waved Michel towards a loaf of bread set out on the table. 

Michel's little sister Crow, barely seven and the youngest of the crew, had stalked to the back of the chamber. She leant her right shoulder against the wall and overlooked proceedings with a sardonic half-smile.

"Monsieur Athos?" Flea asked.

"Bought me an apple," Crow said. "I like him."

No-one had yet managed to pick Athos's pocket. One of these days Flea would go herself.

Arsene doffed an imaginary hat as Flea turned to him. He held his left hand curled over his sword hilt, and stood with his hip cocked to push his weight onto his right leg.

"Aramis," Flea said. "Did you deliver my letter?" 

Arsene nodded.

"Did he see you?"

Arsene shook his head.

"And did you get his purse?"

Arsene looked at his feet.

"You did well," Flea said. She swallowed, imagining Aramis opening the letter, and Porthos explaining its meaning. Her fists tightened around the throne's handrests. She forced herself to relax and pointed at the bread. "Help yourself. You too, Crow."

The last thief, Françoise, stood with her shoulders back, her feet apart, and her chest pushed out. Flea smiled at her.

"Porthos?"

Françoise abandoned her Porthos pose and trotted to Flea with a purse. Flea frowned as she took it, realising why Françoise hadn't thrown it -- it was too light to fly well. Inside she found a single black feather. She pulled it out and held it close to her eyes. The tip had been dipped in red wax. It wasn't simply any feather; it was the one Flea had sent Françoise to deliver. Then, it had been folded in paper and sealed like a letter.

She looked a question at Françoise, frowning.

"I bumped him, tucked the letter into his doublet," Françoise said. "Swung back for the purse. He weren't out of my sight."

"Impressive," Flea said. 

Françoise beamed. 

"Him, not you," Flea said. "He opened the letter, emptied his purse and planted the feather in the time it took you to turn round. You didn't even see him do it." She ran the feather across the inside of her wrist and shivered. "He was always good with his hands."

She prayed he and Monsieur Aramis would be free to accept her invitation that night.


	2. Making it to the Bedroom

Flea watched from above, hidden, as Porthos and Aramis arrived at the Court of Miracles. Too far away to hear their words, she read their body language. Both men were on guard, Aramis more so than Porthos. Aramis's usual fluid prowl was brittle with tension.

Porthos made a joke. Aramis relaxed his vigilance. He laughed, clapped Porthos on the back, and slung his arm around Porthos's shoulders. They entered the Court like that: Aramis squeezing Porthos, Porthos smiling and leaning into the embrace, his hand in the small of Aramis's back. 

Porthos looked up as he passed. Flea knew he couldn't see her, knew he was only guessing, yet ducked back instinctively. Porthos nodded in her direction and turned left to take the long way to the main chamber, giving her time to take the short route and get there first. 

She rose from the throne when they arrived and drew Porthos into a hug. He buried his face in her hair and breathed out; she closed her eyes and nestled her head into the curve of his neck. He smelt entirely Musketeer, not a hint of the Court on him, yet being in his arms still felt like coming home. 

Had she made a mistake? Should she have summoned Porthos on his own?

She pulled away and turned to look at Aramis. The man was devastatingly beautiful. He watched her, as he watched everyone, with a dangerous intensity in his dark eyes. Heat pooled between her legs.

Probably not a mistake.

Flea's hand itched to bury itself in Aramis's wavy hair. She held it out to him. He bowed over it, holding her gaze as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. His tongue flicked between his lips. A thrill ran down Flea's back. She wondered if he'd noticed.

"At your service, madame." Aramis straightened and stepped away, with a sly grin. "So long as serving you doesn't interfere with my duty to the King and to France."

"There'll be no conflicts of interest," Flea said. "Not tonight."

She settled herself in the throne and considered them. There was the same distance between the two men as between her and each of them. Aramis basked in her gaze. Porthos crossed his arms and stared back at her.

"Why are we here?" he asked.

"I wanted to properly meet my lover's lover."

Aramis looked sidelong at Porthos, who spread his hands wide.

"Of course he told me," Flea said.

"Flea can keep secrets," Porthos said. "She knows half a dozen things that'd hang me."

"Nearer a dozen," Flea said. "Besides, the pair of you are hardly subtle. Aramis can barely keep his hands off you."

Porthos rumbled a laugh. "Aramis can barely keep his hands off anyone. One night it'll get him into serious trouble."

"Not tonight," Aramis said, sketching a bow to Flea and moving closer to Porthos. "So: you've met me. What happens next?"

Flea was used to taking the lead -- with men in general and with Porthos in particular -- and it wasn't the first time she'd propositioned a pair of friends. This felt different. The bond between these two was so clear she could almost see it. 

What if they didn't want to share?

Best to find out quickly.

"Next, I take the two of you to my bed," she said, watching Porthos as she spoke. She'd be disappointed if Aramis refused, but it didn't matter. Porthos mattered. She couldn't lose him.

Porthos raised his eyebrows and dimpled. Flea relaxed. She'd seen that expression so many times: disbelief and joy combined with the willingness to follow where she led.

"The direct approach," Aramis said. "I like that in a woman."

"You like a lot of things in a woman," Porthos said. His voice had deepened, always a sign he was turned on. 

"What can I say?" Aramis gestured with his hat. The anticipation on his face suggested he also recognised Porthos's arousal. "I find life is full of pleasures."

He stepped up to the throne, sank adroitly to one knee and took Flea's hand again. He licked her middle finger before pushing his mouth over it and sucking. She hummed and closed her eyes as the sensation rushed through her.

Oh, yes. 

Aramis had definitely noticed how she'd reacted to his tongue earlier.

When Flea opened her eyes Porthos stood behind Aramis, his hands woven through his friend's hair. Aramis released her finger with a final kiss and nuzzled back into Porthos's legs. Porthos looked steadily at Flea.

"Rules," he reminded her.

"Only the one," she said. She touched her wet finger to her lips. "No-one has to do anything they don't want."

"That means asking," Porthos told Aramis. "For everything. Me too, not just Flea. And I'll ask you."

"That'll be a pleasant change," Aramis said, winking at Flea. "He's normally such a brute."

She laughed. "Bed," she said, standing, "Or else I'll have to take you both on this throne."

"And that's not going to work," Porthos said. "It was tight for two. We'd never fit three." 

Flea swept out of the throne room, the two men forming an honour guard behind her, but it only took one glance over her shoulder -- one shared grin with Porthos -- to make her drop the regal pose. She hiked up her skirts, giggling as they chased her down the corridors and alleys.

Aramis caught her in her chamber's doorway and the three of them tangled arms around each other, needy and breathless. Porthos leant back against the wall, reached for Flea, and pulled her into a deep kiss. Aramis pushed himself against her back, one hand caressing her, the other braced on the wall next to Porthos's head. Even here, even with Aramis so close, Porthos kissed as if she were everything. She had no doubt he kissed Aramis the same way.

Aramis ground his hips against Flea, forcing her into Porthos. Flea trailed her lips down Porthos's jaw and onto his throat, undoing his doublet's buttons as she went and folding the sweat-suffused leather aside. Aramis stretched over her and kissed Porthos. Flea attempted to slip out from between them, assuming they'd appreciate the chance to get close to each other, but both men tightened their grips and held her in place. 

Aramis stepped away, giving Flea space to turn and face him. Porthos rested his hands on her shoulder blades, near the fastenings for her bodice.

"May I?" he asked.

She nodded.

"And may I?" Aramis asked, cupping her jaw and leaning down for a kiss.

She stretched up. His lips touched hers gently; his beard scuffed against her cheek. She opened her mouth and deepened the kiss, moaning as Aramis's tongue lapped against hers. She stroked his hair and marvelled at its softness, so different from her own matted locks and Porthos's wiry curls. Aramis bit her lip. She licked across his mouth, darted sideways, and nipped at his ear. He gasped.

Porthos eased her bodice off and moved to the buttons at her waistband. He pushed her skirt down. When it hit the floor, Flea stepped out of it and kicked it aside. Aramis smiled at her in her shift, his eyes warm, and pushed her back against Porthos again, shoving them both into the wall and pressing himself against them. Porthos reached around her to Aramis's hips and dragged him closer. Flea's breathing quickened at the feel of Porthos's cock rubbing against her ass and Aramis's hard in the hollow of her hipbones.

Aramis twisted to whisper in her ear. "May we take you here?" he asked. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth. She shivered.

She'd had other lovers like this: in the doorway, in too much of a hurry to make it the few strides to the bed. She hadn't expected Aramis to be so impatient. His eagerness was beguiling. She'd worried she wouldn't be refined or skilled enough for him, but he wasn't the jaded sophisticate his reputation implied.

Of course he wasn't. Porthos loved him, and Porthos didn't give his love lightly.

"Yes," she said. "Please."

Four hands moved over her, stripping her out of the shift; exploring her bare skin. She didn't have to look to know whose hands were whose. Porthos's hands were gentle: touching her tenderly, drawing out a moan as they closed around her breasts, teasing her nipples with rough fingertips. Aramis's hands were precise: skating over her to test her reactions, then focusing, pinpoint accurate, on the places where his touch made her tremble. Flea's heart raced. 

She still wore stockings and shoes; more revealing -- more exciting -- than being naked. The men were fully clothed, and fully armed, with Porthos's unbuttoned doublet their only concession. They towered over her. It felt debauched and dangerous...

...and a little threatening.

"Weapons and boots off," she ordered. "And doublets. Not the shirts, though."

She loved men stripped to their shirts; worn linen soft to her touch, clinging to sweaty skin and floating loose over slim hips. They obeyed: Porthos dropping his weapons belts to the floor in a series of crashes, Aramis setting his aside carefully. Porthos, already unbuttoned, finished first. Flea stepped into his embrace, standing at his left side, both leaning against the wall, both facing Aramis. Aramis undressed slowly, gracefully, his eyes on them, his gaze heated. 

"He's very pretty," Flea said to Porthos, keeping her tone as neutral as she could.

"That he is," Porthos said, his voice deep and breathy.

Aramis preened in response, and knelt in front of Flea. He moistened his lips. 

"I'd like to lick you," he said. 

Flea couldn't stop herself grinning. She breathed out a sigh of arousal.

"Yes," she said. He leant forward and she held up a hand to delay him. "But undo Porthos's breeches and linens first."

Aramis looked up at Porthos for agreement. 

"Yes," Porthos said. He moaned at the touch of Aramis's hands on his buttons, then the laces of his linens; gasped as his hard cock sprang free. Aramis swept his tongue over its tip and moved away, leaving Porthos shaking. Flea looked up at him. 

"I'd like to stroke you," she said.

"Yeah," Porthos said. "God, yeah."

She caught Aramis's gaze, slowly rubbed her right hand down over her breasts and stomach and dipped it between her legs. She slicked her fingers in her own wetness. Porthos swore softly. Aramis smiled his appreciation. He leant into her as she moved her hand away and kissed the inside of her thighs. She closed her wet hand around Porthos's cock. All three of them exhaled. 

Porthos wrapped his left arm around Flea. She tightened her grip on his cock and stroked him, beginning with a lazy rhythm. Aramis ran his hands up to her waist and flicked his tongue between her folds, matching her slow beat. She whimpered. 

They moved together, drawing soft cries from each other. Flea discovered that turning her wrist a half-turn on the upstroke made Porthos moan and shudder; Aramis discovered Flea liked the roughness of his moustache against her clit; and Porthos discovered Aramis's hair was within reach. Aramis hummed his pleasure when Porthos ran powerful fingers across his scalp. 

Flea accelerated. Porthos's hand on her shoulder shook. Aramis moaned against her clit as he followed her rhythm. Flea cried out, the first waves of pleasure rippling through her. She and Porthos propped each other up. He gasped, gripped her shoulder hard enough to bruise and tugged Aramis's hair. Aramis scraped his teeth against Flea, tipping her over into orgasm. She cried out. Aramis pressed his tongue into precisely the right spot to enhance the sensation. Porthos came, spurting across her hand. 

They leaned on each other, the three of them; breathless, sweaty, undone. Delighted. Porthos laughed in sheer joy. Aramis gazed up at him, love lighting up his face. Flea held them both, her skin prickling with thrills. 

Eventually, Aramis, still on his knees, cleared his throat. Porthos chuckled.

"We haven't forgotten you," he said, grasping Aramis's hand and hauling him to his feet. Flea kissed Aramis, tasting herself. She caught Porthos's attention and looked down. Porthos grinned, nodded, and dropped to his knees. Flea joined him. Aramis lounged back against the wall. 

Flea touched the waistband of Aramis's breeches, waited for his nod, and unbuttoned him. He pushed his braces off his shoulders and she tugged off his breeches, then his stockings. 

"The shirt?" he asked.

"Off," Flea said, working on the laces of his linens. Aramis drew the shirt over his head as she pulled his underclothes down, leaving him naked but for his necklaces. The sight was breathtaking. Flea swallowed. 

"Even prettier naked," Porthos said. He pulled Flea closer to Aramis and into a kiss, their cheeks brushing against Aramis's hard cock. Aramis sighed. Porthos broke the kiss and looked up at him.

"May we?" he asked, his mouth a fraction of an inch from Aramis's cock.

"Be my guests," Aramis said. 

Porthos grazed his tongue across the tip of Aramis's cock. Flea ran hers up Aramis's full length. Their tongues met and they leant into a messy kiss, passing Aramis's cockhead between them.

Aramis gasped and whispered something. Flea strained to hear, leaving Porthos to suck Aramis's cock alone. The words were Spanish and flowed in an unbroken stream, their cadence suggesting poetry. The hairs on Flea's nape fluttered. Tingles ran up her neck and over the back of her head. She quivered, shutting her eyes. 

Porthos's deep voice: "I think she likes it." 

Aramis's whispering continued. His breaths became ragged and uneven. A tension in his voice hinted at the control needed to speak quietly instead of calling out. Porthos shifted. Flea heard his gulps, and a new sound: the scratch of Porthos's beard against Aramis's skin. Flea whimpered as the sensation across her scalp intensified. 

Aramis's Spanish stuttered. He murmured one last line, moaned, and whispered Porthos's name. Flea opened her eyes to see Aramis thrusting into Porthos's mouth and Porthos, hands wrapped around Aramis's ass, swallowing. She sat down on her heels and watched, enchanted by their grace.

Porthos kept his mouth on Aramis's cock until Aramis came back to himself enough to straighten and run a caressing hand over Porthos's head. Porthos grinned, surged to his feet, and picked up Aramis. He carried him to Flea's bed and set him down gently, before returning to lift Flea. She relaxed into his arms; loving his strength and his caring. He climbed into bed still cradling her. The three of them curled around each other. 

Aramis kissed the livid musket ball scar on Flea's left shoulder. She found a similar, but much faded, mark on his right shoulder, the mirror image of hers, and licked it. Porthos, still dressed, wrapped a hand around each of their napes. 

"Those clothes are going to have to come off," Flea said. "Aramis may be pretty naked, but you're beautiful. And I have plans for you, now I finally have both of you in my bed."

Aramis smiled as Porthos took off his shirt.

"Life," Aramis said, stretching luxuriously. "Full of pleasures."


End file.
